


Figure of the Anasyromenos

by lexicale



Series: Anasyromenos!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Androgyne, Incest, Other, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexicale/pseuds/lexicale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after the fight, Dean's making breakfast.  Sam continues to be a hotass at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figure of the Anasyromenos

**Author's Note:**

> Androgyne!Sam(Sam is biologically male, but genders himself neutrally), streetfighter!Dean

Their kitchen is small, a cabinet of a room. Two walls of cabinets that converge in a corner and then an old fridge crammed up against the wall between the two doors -- one leading to the living room the other to the hallway. The linoleum on the floor is cracked and peeling at the edges, browned with dirt and years of abuse that no mop can cure. The grungy old sink is set into the counter top, taps shuddering as water moves through them. 

It’s not winter yet, not really, just the beginning, but the plumbing is shit enough that the temperature doesn’t need to vary much to upset things.

Dean is washing some dishes, getting ready for either a late breakfast or an early lunch. It’s a Saturday, and that means laying in with his brother, no school or responsibilities to dog them. Their dad is in the living room, like he always is when he’s not out crushing trash into cubes, the TV mumbling endlessly in the background. Dean glanced in on him earlier, saw the glassy reflection of moving light over John’s half lidded eyes and the bottle by his reclining chair, before leaving the man to his weekend.

Dean’s drying off a couple of plates when he hears the pad of bare feet against the floor coming from the hallway, and he turns to look at his brother.

Sam’s in the open archway, leaning up against the frame, his shoulder jammed there as he tilts his head to the side, looking in at Dean. The pose, and the warm look in Sammy’s eyes, aren’t at all surprising. What jolts Dean a little is the fact that Sam’s wearing the same shirt he wore last night...and nothing else.

It’s dry now, and hangs loosely from one shoulder, the other draping over his upper arm. The cloth goes down to Sam’s upper thigh, covering his hips and pelvis, covering his crotch, but leaving mile long legs bare and on display.

It’s one of those things that’s supposed to be sexy on _girls._ It’s supposed to be a girl wearing her boy’s big shirt, snug against curves and hugging the hips. It’s not something guys do, and there’s a reason for that. Veiny, muscular legs, covered in wiry hair... It’s not really the sexiest thing. 

So it should look ridiculous when Sam walks out wearing that shirt and nothing else.

It really should.

It just _doesn’t._

Sam’s mile long legs are on display, smooth pale skin stretching out from beneath the hemline, one bearing weight and the other casually crossed over it, ankle resting half bent against the floor. Sam’s arms are crossed over his chest, his hair still messy from bed, curling over his shoulders and around his neck.

Dean wants to walk over there and lift him up, get those legs around his waist, run his hands over those thighs, strong but supple -- feminine yet male, his little brother both and neither at the same time, and it’s moments like these that Dean feels stupidly lucky, because how did some fucking hooligan like him end up with a creature like this?

“You gonna stare forever?” Sam asks, wry smile curling his lips. The gloss is gone now, worn away by heated kisses the previous night, when Dean had pressed his brother down against their bed. Just the thought, the flash memory, makes Dean want to do it all over again.

Sam’s question belatedly catches up with him though, and he remembers that the sink is still running. 

“Maybe,” he replies with a snort and turns to the sink, hand pushing the rusty faucet lever down until the water cuts off, and he puts the plate he’s drying down. When he looks back to his brother, Sam pushes himself off of the door frame and makes his way over. Dean doesn’t hesitate in opening his arms.

Sam’s hands curl against Dean’s shoulders, snuggling up like he was still some little kid, even though they’re the same height these days. His slender body feels so unbelievably slight, so easily broken, in Dean’s arms, and it doesn’t matter how old Sam gets, how quick and confident he is, Dean’s always going to worry. Always going to give into those protective instincts -- and he bundles Sam closer.

It doesn’t take much effort at all to boost him up onto the formica counter top, Sam’s knees on either side of Dean’s waist, and it’s the fucking sexiest sight, Sam leaned back and still lazy with sleep, looking at him like that.

Dean smirks a little in response, running his hands over the sides of Sam’s thighs, the skin there soft and and the hair little more than soft fuzz, and Dean rubs his thumbs against it. His knuckles are cracked and bruised from the fight, but he doesn’t mind the faint twinges of pain. Instead, he leans in for a kiss, Sam’s hands drifting to Dean’s neck before their lips meet, and Dean would fist his hands in his brother’s hair if he weren’t so consumed with rubbing them against Sam’s legs.

Sam’s tongue slides against his own, and Dean presses into the motion hungrily, never satisfied, never getting enough. He got his first taste of Sam two years ago, nineteen years old and pulled to Sam’s bed by those delicate hands, and he’s never looked back, never gotten enough. Sam is like a drug that Dean could never give up. Sam’s sex doesn’t matter, their blood doesn’t matter.

All that matters is each other. It’s all that’s ever mattered.

Dean pulls back breathless, feeling hot and heavy, and he doesn’t care that they fucked twice last night. Already he wants to do it again here, wonders if Sam is still wet enough, if he could tug his brother’s hips down to the edge of the counter top, wrap those long legs around his waist and push into him--

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, looking down at him and then glancing to the other side of the sink, where Dean had laid out the eggs and bread. “You were making me breakfast?”

“Brunch, more like it,” Dean replies with a shrug. Sam laughs, head thrown back, and god, his throat.

“Brunch--... Christ, Dean.” He shakes his head, brown hair falling messily across his cheeks. Dean brings his hand up to brush it back, but it’s just an excuse to touch, to tangle. Sam turns his head and softens, leans into Dean, cheek brushing the older man’s palm. Sam was put into Dean’s arms on the day he was born, and again on the day of the fire, and Dean’s always taken that responsibility seriously, ever since they were kids. He looks out for Sam. He looks after Sam. 

And these days, Sam looks after him too.

“Dean...” Sam says, softer this time, unspeakably tender, and it’s all Dean needs in this screwed up life. He’s lost a lot over the years -- his mom to a fire, his dad to the bottle and pathetic delusions, his childhood to surviving every shack and hovel and run down neighborhood they could afford. 

But life has also given him Sam, and Dean figures it’s a fair enough trade.

He reaches up, grasping Sam’s hand from the side of his own face, pulling it around. He looks up into his brother’s eyes even as he lowers his head to press his lips to Sam’s knuckles, the moment and motion lingering, hanging between them, and Sam’s gaze softens. Dean doesn’t feel guilty for this, not anymore. He’s done that enough, done it long enough, but fuck the world. Fuck everything, everyone, but Sam. 

Sam is the only person he’ll ever truly need.

Sam smiles then, thumb brushing Dean’s lower lip, before he leans back against the poorly hung cabinets, languid and gorgeous in his sprawl.

“C’mon then, jerk... Make me _brunch,”_ he demands, knocking his heel against Dean’s hip and Dean huffs in laughter and disbelief at Sam’s gall. 

He smacks his hand down against Sam’s almost bare backside, and the younger man jumps and squawks indignantly, yanking the shirt down between his legs as Dean pulls away, moving back to the stove top blithely.

“Fine, bitch,” he responds, feeling Sam’s heated glare on his shoulders and blissfully ignoring it.

Dean knows the omelette will earn him forgiveness.


End file.
